Harry Potter and the Faraway Emperor
by hazy.sonata
Summary: In a strange space and time, where seven were chosen as possible replications of His Divine Majesty's Primarchs. Where is "Harry"? Who is "Harry"? What is "Harry"? Live -to- Know -to- Die. Let us tread towards to a strange space and time, and see how the events unfold.
1. Chapter 1: A dance with the Masked: Mor

IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battle fleets cross the daemon‐infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defense forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re‐learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away …. where bonds were forged through smiles, sympathy was presented to those in need, and envy of the specials was casted aside. All of those constituted a melody … an aria for the lost souls, calling upon a far greater power from a twisted world.

Weather forecast:

Sunday, 29/6/1991. Clear.

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their mysterious nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose aggressively on the same well-trimmed front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' worn out wooden double front door; it burst into their living rooms briskly through the gaps of the red curtains, through one of which, ten years ago, Mr. Dursley had caught a glimpse of a shadow of a darker-than-black cat when he had been seeing that fateful news report about the rain of asteroids. The photographs on the mantelpiece were the final nails in showing just how much time had passed.

Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of an athletic boy wearing different-colored clothes - but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a well-proportioned blond boy painting his first model toy, on the rim of the battlefield sided with the Imperial Guard, assorting his toys together with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother, all the while accompanied by another shady looking kid. The room was basked in the presence of Dudley Dursley, but by observing the picts more closely, one could have gasped in abrupt realization as that another boy was presented in every picts, too, but somehow, he was surrounded by a mystic mist, diverting all the attention away from himself, as if he was a simple passerby, only a rather recurrent one.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was always the first to awake and it was her grievance that her whisperer voice that made his sleep rather hard to defy.

"Harry, dear! Wake up!"

Kachunk … Kachunk … Kachunk … Kachunk … Kachunk …

For all of Petunia's effort, Harry could only have dimly heard her voice over the sound barrage of the dated train wheels grinding against the impossible rail coursing high above the air. The sun light brightly shone through the windows of the passenger car, stopped short just above his head. The boy sat there, absent mindedly, on the bench seat with his eyes dratting back and forth, all the while tracking the hectic sway of the grip handle in front of him. He was not in the "real" world.

Even in his own world between the consciousnesses, Harry was idly occupied by a trance of dowsiness as if he took a drug that had made him dream. He did not feel like doing anything, for even if he did, it woud be for naught. It might have been overly obvious, since he knew that the train was not real, neither was the air he breathing, nor was the vibration provocatively rocking up his ass. Ignoring all of those mentally constructed details, however, the world was pleasant as it was, devoid of reason and practicality: truly catering to his feelings and desires for a simple rest. Harry let his consciousness drifted away with the train, ever caring less.

As time passed, the ever gentle light was gradually dipped in a golden glow of a dying afternoon. A shadow loomed over Harry, as the boy hung his head naturally during his light slumber.

"It is time." A voice boomed over his head loudly, but Harry did not feel any chiding tone, not was there any hostility, so he knew it was fine to … hear.

Time for what, exactly.

"You shall not remember this conversation, but I am here to tell you that it is time."

What is the point of telling me when I am to forget it anyway?

"Because I have a vision, child."

A vision?

"Now, I shall cast the dice; seven kings, seven colors."

I don't play with dice.

"Spoken like a true king."

I am no king.

"You have a purpose. I have created you so."

I was?

"Shall one of the seven kings be crowned, I will return to this sector once again. In the grace of your servitude, I shall grant you your heart desire, as you will die, and return to your space and time."

A death for a wish?

"A life for a wish."

Optimistic, eh?

"Quite so. Now, I am going to suppress this memory. In due time, you shall experience it again."

Can I take the blue pill?

"Tell me, what do you want to dream of?"

Eldar Motorcycles.

"So much for a tranquil world of dream. Good night, child."

….

…

…..

….

"Harry, dear! Wake up!"

Then, Harry heard his aunt's walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. Now, somewhat awakened, he tiredly aligned himself against the wall and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a Dark Eldar flying motorcycle in it. He had a rather ominous feeling he'd experienced the dream in real life, and shuddered at the thought. There was a fine line between fiction and reality, and he had bloody no intention to cross it. However, as much as his rationality denied it, he could still see that the battle was still going on, the Assault Space Marines was engaged in a glorious charge at the Tau Fire Warrior on the hill created by his knees under the blanket; the Fire Warrior held their uphill advantage bravely, but alas, the Assault Marines had already closed their distance, with a lucky roll of no one in particular, as the dice manifested from thin air. The rest, as they had said, was history. The battle was all but decided once and for all, but Harry could not watch it to the definite end, as his aunt softly knocked on the door again.

"Dear?" she called worriedly.

His aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet, dear?" her delicate voice delightfully rung through the door, as the shadow of her legs was casted unto the room through the clearance between the door and the floor.

"Yes, I'm up, aunt." said Harry absent mindedly, diverting his gaze from the blanket to look at her shadow, when he was reminded that he still had his routine to complete. "Can you just wait me finish my routine, please?"

"Yes dear, after you are done, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

"Yes, I will do that." Harry replied, chuckled at his aunt hysterical perfection when it came to her beloved little Duddley, and heard footstep echoed away from his door. He had a vague thought that he had forgot something when he casted his gaze on the flattened blanket, but then, he stood up as he knew it would be no use thinking about something the brain refused to recall, and that the forgotten would resurface in time. All he could do was to patiently wait.

Harry laxed his joints momentarily, titled himself forward, dropped face first to the floor, and started doing push-up. After a while, beads of sweat glisteningly dropped from the pinch of his nose to the floor as he kept pushing away, and he stopped counting at one hundred-ish. Then, suddenly, his breath fell out of pace. His brows knitted to a scowl as he realized that his body was getting too tired just for a routine exercise. Harry drew himself closer to the floor for a brief moment to gain some momentum, and launched himself back up at a relaxed standing pose with his moderately toned arm.

Dudley's birthday – another age added to his brother – he had a surprise present for him. Harry felt somewhat complicated that Dudley was getting older, closer to the ever present death, but the thought only lingered for a second. Harry dismissed his negative attitude. Life was to be lived gracefully. Needless worry brought along needless stress. Whatever might have come, would eventually come. Never mind that, socks … socks …

Harry started digging around his closet, looking for socks. He found a pair after he fought through the sea of mismatching socks, and after flailing them about in sudden strikes to get them straight out, put them on. His eyes darted around the room looking for his white shirt and black trouser. Harry was bad with general house works, because most of the time, his aunt did them for him; however, on rather frequent social nights that his adoptive parents must attend to, Harry found himself in the position of supreme chef to cook for his opponent and his brother.

The young boy walked toward his work table, which was like a smelly metal mountain of trash according to Petunia, but to him, personally, the tools were perfectly in their places. He could close his eyes and started tweaking away at his inventions with the right tools in impervious precision. Petunia was banned in his room for some obvious reasons. Still standing in front of the table, dazed in the reminiscence of Petunia's disastrous adventure through his table for a second, the boy grabbed his white shirt and his black trouser he had hung on the chair last night, and get dressed.

Then, Harry reached for his CMP, plugged the earphone in, and started the music.

BGM: Like a dream come true – Pimpsona 4.

Nodding to the beat, he scrambled for black covered notebook, which was situated at the middle of the table, and flipped it open. There he found his glasses acting as a bookmarker just as he left it last night. Some other unfinished projects on the table caught his eyes, but he shrugged away, as that day was an off day. He had principles, which dictated that he must grab the glasses, substitute it with a pencil as a bookmarker, stuff the glasses into his breast pocket, and goof off to the kitchen.

After he had dressed appropriately, he went down the hall into the kitchen, but he doubted that even if he dressed sloppily, no one would make a complaint, for it was more or less suicidal to mock one of the Dursley. He amusingly snickered at the wicked thought of walking back up to his bedroom, slipping into his pajama, and insisting on going to the celebration dressed like that to watch the myriad of expressions that the guests may displayed briefly on their faces. Yes, that would have been entertaining as he needed a laugh badly. It was excusable, as he was still, all in all, a child. He was about to turn his feet to retreat back to his room when he forcefully broke the dangerous train of thought. Harry reminded himself that he still had to uphold to image of the Dursley, after all.

As he entered to kitchen, he noticed that the table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he had wanted, not to mention the obvious bulk of the tabletop terrains and the portfolio shaped codex. Harry blinked when his gaze met the wrapped book. Exactly why Dudley wanted a codex was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley freakishly collected all of the codex, and even then the codex was unneeded as he even remembered every stats and rules of each army - unless of course it involved a genuine codex to decidedly reprove the cheating or otherwise loosely rule interpretation of somebody during a session.

Dudley's memory and utilization of the codex came full circle when he was up against Harry, but tactics and memorized materials were on different terms: Dudley couldn't often catch Harry in the flank. Harry do look his part of shadiness, and his tactics were always alternative in pace and rhythm. Perhaps it had something to do with supporting a rising industrial regime, but Harry had always been dark and slightly skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he preferred to wear were form-fitting shirts and suits to engage in general talks and some of the core businesses. Somehow, when he was dressing in something more suited for the older men, Harry looked proportionally more trivial. However, under the suit, there was a toned body trained to fight. The boy knew that his age was regarded rather more lightly than he would expected, and sometime, during the negotiations, in the eyes of the adults, a healthy display of violence was … necessary. He could have relied on his trusted guards for protection, but the punishment dealt by the headman always had more impact. It ensured fear, and generally speaking, fear was good.

Much of the terror in the underworld was instilled by the unexpected intensity coming from a thin face, knobbly knees, ruffled black hair, piercing green eyes, and coupled with the occasional usage of fair priced rectangle glasses, all of which perfectly described a nerdy little brat; however, by mixing all of those traits and items up, making sure that it would blend, adding a crushing aura of oppressiveness as the icing, with grated shrewd mind of a genius, and baking it up in the rising Dursley Family, then, you would have the renowned Masked Executioner of the Dursley.

Harry did not like the over dramatic title one bit as he disliked uniqueness in general, but as if it was the last resort of other conglomerates to annoy him, the title was known in every corner of the dark world, and recently, it had appeared on some gossip magazines. Harry had the intelligence agency to dig up the identity of the one proposed that title for him, but to no avail. However, there was one unique feature of his own appearance that he liked, and it was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

"I'm not quite sure, dear." she had said. "You were delivered to us by an unknown benefactor."

"I understand." Harry had replied, keeping his emotions indifferently in check, as he saw worries, maternal fears, and unspoken sadness poured forth from Petunia eyes. He never asked her again.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen wobbly, scratching his head with sleepily strokes as Harry was turning over the bacon stripes by stripes. The man glided over the floor like a ghost, with his skinny leg hidden behind the long trousers, and his body looked dangerously malnourished compared to other fatty pigs acting as heads of sub-branch families.

"Haaaaaaaarryyyy~~" he yawned by a way of a morning greeting. About every day in the week, Uncle Vernon sheepishly walked out of his bedroom, in his unkempt suit, headed straight to the fridge, and gulped down the freezing milk; greeting Harry was a voluntary action. Harry did not blame him though. Any lesser man would be dead within weeks if put to the position Vernon was occupying. The birthday of Dudley came as a hard earned boon. Both Vernon and Harry needed a breather, and a haircut. About haircut, Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew back the night after – utterly disheveled, uncontrollably spiky, and indescribably wild, tickling away at the heart of the girls his age, and attracting a lot of unwanted attention without him ever using Axe associated products.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had an oval face, with sharp features, cold blue eyes, and thick blond hair that stayed unkempt no matter how he grinded it down. Aunt Petunia often sighed in resignation that the hair might have been passed down generation by generation - Harry often answered to her complaint that he understood.

Harry silently put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room, and there was still the chicken soup. Dudley, noticing that Harry was struggling, started counting his presents. His face fell.

"Why are there so much presents?" he said, looking up at his mother and father accusingly. "It's not like I am a snotty little brat or anything."

"Darling, it is a social thing. Just try to accommodate with it."

"Well, I will open your presents …" gestured Dudley toward his parents; one of whom was battling to move the mountain of present to the living room, and the other was literally drowning sheepishly in his bowl of cooled chicken soup. "… and Harry's." Harry, who was taking the other bowls of soup to the table, began to twirl around in one-two to steer clear of his aunt's battle with the pompous pesky protruding persistent presents.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger because she responded quickly, "We will donate the rest to local charity, so please don't start a campfire with the leftover presents, darling.'' It was hell cleaning up a burnt stain, and there was the commotion with the SP and the firefighters too.

"I thought it was fun?" Dudley's eyes sparkled happily when he remembered the campfire that he had started few years ago. It was the best fun he ever experienced, period.

"Where is the fun in burning down _house and home!?_" Petunia gasped in disbelief.

"Hm, I like the smell of …" Dudley straight facedly replied to his mother question only to be cut in the middle by her retort, and a chop to the forehead. "Too _cliché_, that is too _cliché!_"

"What I am to do with you …" Petunia sighed heavily, wondering where she had educated him wrong. Dudley was geared toward athletic activities and academic studies on his own. Petunia had never really had to worry about him. She and Vernon kept their distance from the children, not too far away, but not too close that it would spoil him, because in him, she could see a figure of mature independence forged by his voluntarily positive attitude in keeping up the image of the Dursley. In his time at home, however, Dudley's childish tendency was attended to by Harry. Petunia often saw smiles bloomed on both faces as she stormed around the hall doing housework. Her Dudley was growing into a fitting heir to the Dursley, both mentally and physically, if only he could stop uttering his occasional surprisingly suspensive comments.

"Well, celebrate my birthday?"

She heard Dudley somewhat normal answer, and her mouth started firing off before her brain can stop it, "I don't think that is the _point!?_"

Dudley thought for a moment, stood up and walked over to his mother. "If you say so." He started to skim over the present tags, and took the undesirable ones off the table, directly supporting his mother in her battle. It looked like hard work, Harry thought as he was chopping up cucumber for the salad with deadly precision for one who was looking away from the chopping board…

"Here. Happy birthday, Dudly." Aunt Petunia tiredly handed him her present after she had fished it out of the bunch.

"Oh." Dudley settled down on the carpet floor and tear away the wrapping of the parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon was snoring peacefully, deeply immersed in his full bowl of cooled chicken soup.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia hurried away to answer it while Harry watched Dudley unwrap the dated codex, and held it up with great relish, which seemed to be seeping forth from his sparkling blue eyes. He was ripping the paper off Harry present when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking worried.

"The escort will be here in an hour" she said, and looked at Harry still chopping onion with the precision of an Iron Chef. "Enough with your cooking fest _already!?_" She waved Harry to the table.

Dudley paid no attention at his mother's urge, as he was still in shock of seeing Harry's present. Harry brought the bowl of salad to the table, noticed that his present was unwrapped, and winked at Dudley. "A prototype, couldn't finish it. Still get your heart up, yes?"

Dudley held up the decorated bracer put together by his brother, and comically grimaced. "This kept you from the games?"

Harry's heart fell a tone, comically, as he showed a rare apologetic smile. "Well, yeah. Happy Birthday."

Dudley shot a grin at Harry. "Thanks."

"Wait!? Is that …?" Petunia had just sat down on the comforting wooden chair when she saw Harry's present. It was a silver bracer that she had seen in a rejected portfolio, which had been previously sent to the Military Material Division.

Harry expression lightened up for a second, as he settled down on his chair. "Yes, the powered amour bracer. The base wrapping the arm and the fingers are built with Reinforced Exoskeleton technology, made with amorphous metal, which is twice as hard as steel. The RE technology heightens the power and the response of the region it is attached to at the cost of varied degrees of stress on the user body. To counter the stress, between the outer guard plate and the exoskeleton, I have welded in a repulsion system, which partially transfer the recoil force to an easily replicable bolt made of tungsten alloy …"

Petunia dazedly heard Harry rambling on the incredulous construction of his present, only to snap out of it on her T-reflex. "Wait! Where in _the bloody hell_ did you get those alloys!?"

She knew that Harry would never take the alloys from the company just to cater to one of his rejected invention. Therefore the origins of those materials might just be, in the slightest chance, from a dark trade. Petunia knew that her nephew would eventually be the one to deal with the dark face of Dursley Family, but not immediately then!?

"On my table?" Harry confusedly answer at his aunt interruption.

"You have created this … this …" Failing on forming a cohesive description of the bracer Dudley was holding, and falling in to one hell of a mental disbelief hole, Petunia grinded her teeth to continue her sentence. "… in _your __room_!? _From materials found on a table of metallic trash!?_"

"Why, yes." Harry bluntly answered, which snapped off the last straw of Petunia sanity.

"EAT! YOUR! BREAKFAST!" The Spartan Petunia finally snapped at the two boy's dilly dallying, and showed the otherworldly expression of a yellow cat being compared with President Mori.

"OH MAI GAWD!" Dudley exclaimed shakily as he saw her strange disposition, and started to dig in his food at great haste, his spoon seemed to have multiplied in process. All the while, his eyes glued to his bowl, as he feared that if he looked at his mother a bit longer, he would be sucked into the strange aeons, in which death might finally be granted life.

"And Harry, I will have a word will you later." Apparently, when Harry looked at his aunt's eyes, he felt like he was being gazed down by the Asura having just climbed out of Naraka for the fourth time.

"I understand." Harry nodded nonchalantly and bit into his toast, nailing the hectic breakfast to a definite end, with his uncle still blissfully asleep, drowning peacefully in the cool chicken soup as bubbles started to surface.

"It is great that you will beha…. Not! What do you mean you understanddddddddddddddddddddd!?" Petunia howled at Harry's indifferent attitude.

With that final retort, the breakfast came to a close.

"Vernon! Wake uppppppppppppppppppppppppp!" That time, she was on verge of tears.

E-hem. With that final wail, the breakfast came to a close.

…

…

….

….

BGM: Specialist – Pimpsona 4.

Every year on Dudley's birthday, the Capo di tutti ca… a _**wide**_ range of FOREIGN and local celebrities hosted his birthday party, and out of accommodative sake to the social links, Dudley reluctantly attended the event annually with his parents. Every year, Harry volunteered to be left behind at the house, tending to the paperwork that might have been skimmed over by his tardy uncle. The whole house, in those occasions, felt alarmingly devoid of life and warmth. Harry often retired early to his room, curled into a ball in his thin blanket, and tried to fall asleep hoping that the night would pass quickly and painlessly. However, this birthday party, which was debatable on the size aspect of the "party", was Harry's official debut to the celebrities as the hapless nephew luckily picked up by the charitable Dursley. He went under the alias of Danel Radclive in public announcements of his latest inventions and contributions to the Dursley Family. Even in the inner circle of the core company, no one knew his true identity, but for a few of his trusted guards. Anonymity had its use.

"Ready for your debut, darling?" said Aunt Petunia jokingly when she, Dudley, and Harry were outside of the main mansion, decided to walk the few paces towards the gate.

To which Harry replied cripsly. "I see that Uncle is _accompanying_ us today."

Petunia looked at Harry confusedly. "Well yes, his attendance is a must, right dear?" She turned to her left to rhetorically inquire her supposed-to-be-there husband. There was obviously no one on her left, but Harry could swear that he had seen the rough dotted outline of the missing Vernon's figure blinking comically beside Petunia.

Her eyes widened when her brain finally computed that her husband was not there when their escort would arrive in matter of minutes. Petunia started hyperventilating as her anger took over. Her veins was visibly throbbing, and thus, the avatar of Asura was summoned, completed with streams of white smoke breathing out of her ears.

"He is most certainly _still sleeping_ in the kitchen." Harry mercilessly delivered the end destination to the embodiment of hatred that once was Petunia.

"निमित्त…" howled Aunt Petunia vengefully, as she stormed back to the house.

"_Godspeed_, aye, ma'am." Harry called after his aunt's back, and Dudley started to slip into a hysterical laughing fit - and a moment later Vernon Dursley, whose cheeks were burning with a vehement red, was escorted in tow with his wife. His cologne of choice was deliciously swamping the air with its stomach clutching scent of chicken as Harry's nose picked it up.

"Good of you to _join_ us, sir." Harry bowed smartly at the unsightly sight of his overly tired uncle, who was under a hazy trance, like a boxer in his final bout, standing courageously to take the heat, but not one bit conscious.

"You will pay for this, Harry boy…." Vernon whimpered under the bright sunlight, dimly recognizing Harry's voice. "Remember …"

BGM: Red Velvet – NicotineArmarfi.

"It would do better for YOU to remember that today is our son's birthday!" Petunia bit her lips, and a tear traced down her right cheek.

"Hm, how about we leave those boys after dinner …" With his senses screaming maximum alert, Vernon fixed his posture, straighten his suit, combed his sleep hair back to the Irresistible Wild HairTM with his bare hands, his eyes gleamed sharply as he held his wife's chin tenderly, and gazed passionately into her eyes. "…to have some _hard earned_ time for us adults _alone_?"

Petunia turned beet red in seconds in front of her husband, whose sharp and handsome face was leaning in. "Why can't you stay like this all of the time!?" She started to throw love-love punches at her husband chest, and her lips glossed crimson as her face moved closer to those of her husband.

"I am _sorry_ to interrupt …" Harry expressionlessly quipped at the entwined lovers. "…but the escort should have arrived by now, and must be waiting for our departure."

"Wha … I thought I told you boys to go ahead and wait at the gates!?" Petunia hastily snapped out of her love-love mode, her face drained of color realizing that she was about to show a R-rated live-action kiss in front of the children, and addressed Harry in embarrassment. "Get going, now! Vernon, you too!"

Harry comically shot a defiant look at Petunia. "For the record, you didn't say anything about us going ahead."

"Then, you would best adhere to _common sense_, and _went ahead!?_" Petunia cheeks, in turn, was colored again.

"Then I will take your advice _to the heart_." Harry dragged Dudley, who was clutching his stomach laughing too much, along with him, and headed for the gates. "Excuse us, we will be going ahead, _now_."

"What is the _purpose_ of going ahead now!?" Petunia hurried after the boys on the gravel walkway, with Vernon following closely behind, comically sighing away at his easy to tease wife.

…..

….

….

BGM: Stride – NicotineArmarfi.

Half an hour later, Harry, who was somewhat hyped, was sitting in the back of the armored escort car with his brother and the accompanied guard: Sergey "Nexus" Schmidt, on the way to the public celebration of Dudley's Birthday for the first time in his life.

"A reminder to you," Vernon had said, sitting opposite of him in the Limousine, leaned forward, and flicked his index finger playfully at Harry's forehead, "Boy, you are not Danel Radclive here – you can go around listening to gossips of business – but don't butt in and give your saintly advices to them; they don't deserve that gift."

"I'm not going to do anything," sighed Harry dejectedly, "… I know better than that." Uncle Vernon gave him a wink, and looked contented. "Oh, and no magic tricks."

Magic tricks, Harry grimaced. The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry when he was in dangerous situation and it was just no good reporting to his uncle that he didn't make them happen. Vernon apparently believed that Harry could have somehow dodged bullet and bent steel with his inventions, well, he could but that somehow went beside the point.

Today, Harry took extra care by summoning his personal guards to accompany him, and nothing was going to go wrong, at least he wishfully prayed so. While he boredly watched the hectic traffic, Uncle Vernon autonomously talked in idly topics with his wife Petunia, keeping her T-reflex at bay, so that the trip could at least retain in controllable silence. He mindlessly switched topics: people at work, Harry's table, the inner circle, Harry's sea of socks, the heads of the branch families, and Harry's projects were just a few of his recursive subjects. His eyes stopped at a motorcyclist parked his bike alongside the limousine, waiting for the light to turn.

"... living only once; what do they think? They can live twice? "I am the best under the Heaven." Oh please, you are not Japanese delinquents. Bloody youths…"he yawned, and his cologne deliciously filled the compartment, as the motorcycle brazenly roared past the intersection with the coppers geared immediately into chase.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," Harry's eyes darted after the bike, reminded hazily of his dream. "It was flying."

Dudley sniggered mockingly. "I bet even you cannot make a motorcycle to fly."

"Who knows? I don't think I want to work on something that troublesome." said Harry.

"How about giving me one on my 18th birthday?" Dudley's eyes gleamed in anticipation as he requested with an expression of "all according to keikaku."

"I will think about it." Which meant I would do it to Harry. That was why he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing more troublesome than his officially overdue projects, it was his unconscious talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon – Dudley would catch on right away, always seemed to think he might be able to eventualize the presented concepts, and as if to push Harry into deeper perils, he always succeeded in building the madness he mentioned to Dudley, prompting the heir to the Dursley to expect more and more of him. Harry could always ditch official work, though, for being the pioneer of the new technology had its own leeways.

….

…..

….

BGM: Electronica in Velvet Room – Pimpsona 4.

Harry darted his eyes over the surrounding structure as the driver informed through the intercom that they were entering the premise of the celebration site. Harry noticed they had left the main road quite some time ago, passing through a pair of newly painted iron gates and entered a passage with buttresses and crenellations protruded sideway like ribcage covering the spine from every surface, disgustingly encrusted with ugly statuary commemorating unknown figures, and wastefully vast areas had been gilded, annoyingly reflecting the sunlight to anyone who happened to turn his gaze onto it. Simply speaking, it struck a deep impression on the indifferent Harry as one of the most stridently vulgar piles of masonry he had ever seen.

"I don't understand art." Harry mouthed off, and hung his head, but then he could feel snarky gazes from virtually everyone on the car at that moment, even from the driver.

The driver pulled up outside the main entrance, halting at the end of a red carpet skilfully without Harry feeling the brake recoiled. After a moment the other escort cars, which completely slipped from the boy's mind, pulled up behind Harry and the honor guards piled out, deploying on either side of the limousine they had arrived on as a full squad, five pairs of operators facing each other across the crimson weave, hands crossing behind their straightened backs, solemnly waiting for the Dursley to disembark.

"Boy, remember." Vernon sharply extended an arm to Harry as the driver hastily bustled up to open the doors.

"I will." Harry took it as they emerged, but he did not follow the Dursley to their informal greetings to the strolling guests. He stopped for a moment to have a word with the Nexus.

"Any further orders, sir?" the Nexus, noticing the glint in Harry's eyes, walked towards him, and faked his dramatic crouching posture as if he was a father chiding a child scared of going to some strange place.

Harry consciously shook his head lightly for the sake of the spoiled-child-persuasive-guardian act. "Stand on alert, and get yourself something to eat," he whispered. Strictly speaking Harry could have his guards accompany the Dursley, but they did not do so in their previous annual visits, and the thought of the armed honor guards mingling with the important figures and the aristocracy ought to be almost too strenuous to the heart of the local guard. How little it might have been, Harry did feel sorry for the local guards to patronize such nauseous structures daily, so he spared them from having to worry about a spontaneous assassination order from him. Harry still had snipers situated from two clicks away, though. Just for safety, he thought, and pondered if it was outrageous.

Nope, he concluded, slowly put his hands up and covered his ears, which, to the outsider, looked like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum, but in fact, he was signaling Sergey to give him a combead, which he slipped into the boy's right ear when he pretended to pat Harry's head. "Leave the channel open," Harry added. ", and secure it. I'll contact you when we're ready to leave."

"Yes sir." A faint smile formed on his broad face before discipline reasserted itself, and he sternly stand up, vectored towards the deployed operators.

"Atten Shun!" Schmidt bellowed, and the operators snapped to it with nanosecond precision. A minor awe caught Harry's train of thought as he never actually saw his guards attended to formal activities. The crash of synchronized heels caused heads to turn around, with even the high profile Britiss Generals looking mightily impressed, and their kids even more so.

"Impressive as always." Petunia murmured as the Dursley gained the elaborately carved entrance doors.

"Quite mild, if I have a say in it." Harry disagreed, emerging from the shadow behind Petunia, causing her heart to jump quite a long beat.

BGM: Backside of the TV – Pimpsona 4

Inside, it was exactly as Harry had anticipated after witnessing the monstrosity the architect had built, the decorator apparently had an appeal to the kind of impulsive ostentation too many of the wealthy mistake for good taste, with crystal and gilt and garish tapestries of historic battles and self-denying-looking kings strewn around the place like a Somali warehouse. The high arched ceiling was supported by pillars distastefully carved to mimic the bark of some species of aged tree, and Harry sank into the carpet as deep as the knee, as though it were a swamp. Petunia's lips quirked as she absorbed the full opulence of their surroundings.

"Bloody fake cotton hell." she said quietly. "Pure marble would have been more beautiful."

Harry suppressed a mocking comment rising up his throat as a flunkey walked over to guide them forward.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen… We are about to be graced by the arrival of the Dursley family," he announced, not loudly, but it did quiet down the room all at once. "… and their nephew." He added unnecessarily, much to Harry's chagrin. Which at least explained to some stinging gazes who he was. Through a corner of his eyes, Harry surveyed the room quickly, registering familiar faces, who he must avoid so as to avoid any recognition of the most bare of mannerism he might have displayed during the monthly televisual meeting of the R&D department. His face was always hidden during those discussion, but he would take no chance here.

Harry was about to glide away quietly when he realized that it was utterly unnecessary as the Dursleys had already established themselves as the new center of attention, leaving the more trivial Harry free to what he wanted. Well, that was a new experience to the boy, being ignored by the contractors and the army big faces in favor of more connection. Irony tasted bland his Harry's mouth as he tried to chuckle quietly, but then he decided to fade out of the picture and go pursuing for his amusement of observing big shots lying through their teeth, which he did with all due dispatch.

Harry naturally walked to the food carts, and clumsily poured himself a soft drink; the kind that was supposedly all the rage among his peers. Then, he retreated to the shadow casted off a withdrawn curtain of a nearby great glass windows, where most eyes would met with brilliant sunshine from outside as the curtains were opened. That way, most would unconsciously turn their eyes away from his position. Then, the boy directed his eyes to the mingling people to observe the myriad of masks, which amusingly displayed fake personalities, forced humors, fabricated humilities with not-so-innocent snide remarks – collided against each other. Their stories, he knew them all, and he even knew of the darkness that binded them along with those stories. As was his amusement taking over him, Harry still circulated widely, keeping an edge of his eyes and ears open to filter through the torrent of noise, as he would never know what useful little snippets of information could slip out somewhere, in this hall of imbecile. Harry could finally see why the Dursleys tried to steer away from those parties.

His enjoyment in watching the darker part of humanity struggled to accommodate to the lighter side of society was ended abruptly when the entertainment sneakily caught a note of joy in his ears.

BGM: Aria of lost Soul – Pimpsona.

He flippantly traced to the source of the singing voice, and effortlessly found the image a young woman was standing on a relatively modest podium – the fact of which was saying a lot given that the podium was inside such horrid monstrosity of a structure – at the end of the room, surrounded by supposedly "famous musicians", all of whom Harry recognized having encountered through his darker line of work, but he could care less for those junky dickheads right then, because her voice was hauntingly beautiful. She was singing old sentimental favourites, like Skyrises and Someone unlike You, and even an extraordinarily young cynic like Harry could appreciate the emotions she put into them, and feel that, just that once, the trite words were ringing true: There was no mask in the voice. Harry closed his eyes, and within the tearful lyrics, he could have seen the image a girl was driven mad in her white white hospital room, as she was abandoned by everyone she considered family, husband, son, and even daughter. Every night, she was wallowing her cruel fate, until she heard the bell tolled for the six times at 12 o'clock on the day God resided to rest, and her memories came back abruptly, transparently clear as though it was but yesterday. The woman had tearlessly shook off her lover hands, leaving him to Death in the same room, at that precisely same time ten years ago. But the man loved her even to his eventual demise. His last words were as certain as it was chiseled on his grave. "I love you forever more."

Going mad from remembrance, no longer knowing even her own name, nor the name of the man she had heartlessly pushed to Death, the woman mindlessly broke through her window with her frail fists, and reached to the freedom from 86th floor up from the ground. Strangely as the mad world turned, the woman was not falling, she was walking on broken glass as her heart shattered bit by bit, seeing the man once she loved wholeheartedly extending a hand to her. The woman reached for him, and they united, and started to waltz through the needless rules binding them to reality.

As the song ended with a quite smooth improvised transition for blasted junkies, Harry found himself uncharacteristically rooted to the wall next to the blinding windows enjoying snatches of her birdy soprano carried through the room, cutting through the backbiting and the small talks, and he felt his eyes drifting in her general direction every time the crowd parted enough to afford him a clear view.

And the view was well somehow worth it. There was something of her stature that made Harry could not properly register her face or even her generic build from where he was standing. He just knew that she was there, as if she was just a matter-of-factly person supposed to be there, and it was naturally for her to be there. However, her eyes – Harry could see them just strangely fine – were the dark emerald of an elder jewelry, and seemed to transfix the boy whenever he looked in her direction.

"So you're the famous nephew of the Dursley," someone said, patting Harry on the head as he was drowning in the bright pace of the new song. Harry stood through it automatically, raising his gaze a little only to found himself looking at a benevolent-faced man in an overly simple, nevertheless still formal black suit, trouser and shirt with the clerical collar, which positively screamed priest. He looked straight into Harry's eyes. "My condolescène with the accidence involving your parents."

"It is alright, I can assure you." Harry said blandly, returning his gaze intentively. "I don't remember much about it."

"I see." He eyed the boy inquisitively, trying to determine the amount of truth in those words. Harry prosily kept his expression neutral. "I take it you have come to terms with where you are now?"

"At the moment," Harry said, choosing his words with care, "I suppose I don't really need anything else."

"I see." He nodded, and stuck out a hand for Harry to shake. After a moment's juggling with the difference in heights, which was more to put the man off balance than anything, Harry shook it firmly. "Laggera Primapice, Local Priest."

"I thought as much." Harry innocently smiled in return. "You have the look and the attitude of a man of light about you."

"Whereas you seem quite insightful for a child."

"They say that a child's sight can reveal much too many of overly concealed truths," Harry said. "So, I'm supposed to look at something and point out the obvious."

"Which includes thinking about your current standing in the world of adult? You surprise me."

"I do think that the Dursley is my new home," Harry patiently told him, "but it has to do with something more of my origin than anything else. I suppose having no original home with real parents dead would eventually keep any human being awake through a few long nights, asking himself where he is currently in this vast world. Which I did, and I realized that there are many others, whose fates are worse off than me. So all in all, I appreciate my current life." And that he was keeping his newly family prosper, of course, which was far more important to him. Laggera looked surprised, and a little gratified. He asked, and Harry provided.

"I can see your earlier words are far from exaggerated," he contentedly said. "And I truly hope that the Lord may grant you peace in your _home_ for many years to come."

That was what Harry wanted to hear. The boy smiled, and sipped his overly sweet drink.

"As the Empe …. the Lord wills it," Harry nearly slipped a phrase he'd picked up from the codex over the course of his long bitter battle with Dursley's Imperial Guard. Of course when Dudley said it he meant every word, but from Harry, it was just the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Harry had never really bought the idea that His Divine Majesty could have spare some attention from the job of preventing the entire galaxy from sliding into damnation to look out for Harry's morale check, too, or anyone else's for that matter, which is why Harry was so diligent about practicing the throws to decide the outcome value of the roll himself. "I heard that the party is hosted by Mister Wolf Kimberlee this year." Harry continued the conversation with a diversion of topic.

"That man …" the priest nodded gloomily. "I think he is over there talking to your guardians." He indicated with a tilt of his head at the general direction where a man – Kimberlee – was cheerily chatting away with Vernon and Petunia. "He is an … interesting man in a broader sense of the word. When you have grown up and have some time to allot, I suggest that you should go to talk to him. But it is strange, I think that he would often be accompanied by his ... oh, there." another tilt of the head to the far corner of the room to an obvious guard in a suit, eyes hidden behind sun glasses, "that man is the reason Mister Wolf hardly even cared about his family slipping out from under him anymore."

"He sticks out like a thumb," Harry said. Laggera smiled weakly.

"So he does. But why he can afford to do so for a man of his fame is the real question, don't you think?"

Well the priest's words were right on the money so far as Harry was concerned, as he had come to some deductions, which would need latter confirmations. Harry absent-mindedly exchanged a few more inconsequential words with Laggera and then excused himself to refill his drink, subtly indicating the end of the conversation. After a few more parting words, Harry headed towards the table at the far end of the room where a rather normal bar had been laid out. On the way, He noticed his adoptive parents had managed to extricate themself from the nuisances' presence. The air of confidence they were radiating was remarkable, acted effectively as a repellent of blood sucking insects and buzzing bees, as most of those unanimously parted as the Dursleys gained through, essentially reenacted Mosses walking the Red Sea. It certainly looked as though they were enjoying themself, in the barest sense of the word though, and Harry gave Dudley a faint smile as their eyes briefly met. He responded with a flashing grin, and continued parading around with his parents.

BGM: Madder Red – Fate/Over Night.

"It looks like you've lost your interest in me," a voice sang a note of joy behind Harry. The boy turned, and found himself falling into the deep dark emerald eyes of the young singer he'd been watching before.

Uncharacteristically for Harry, he was momentarily at a loss for words. She was smiling, a plate of finger food in her hand.

"I was, ah, just talking with a priest," he answered automatically. "Recurring life troubles, and loss of faith. Something along those lines."

She laughed, a warm, innocent chuckle which dazed Harry's mind for a brief moment, and just then Harry realized she was childishly pulling his leg.

"I am sorry," However, she soon hung her head empathically when she realized she had touched an awkward spot. "Did something bad happen to you?"

"Please don't, I do not want the celebration to turn into a life counsel in my memory." Harry remarked on the overly abundance of empath in this party. "That would indeed be miserable to me." The emerald eyed singer was transfixing her gaze on him sympathetically, the ghost of a weak smile fainting at the corner of her mouth, and Harry suddenly got the feeling that she could cure him of his twisted other face of loyalty and dedication towards his family he normally kept concealed from the outer world. It was an unnerving sensation as Harry knew the depth in her eyes; a depth that was devouring the light off her eyes. This woman was seeking help. Harry knew, for him too, had fallen into the same ordeal, but escaped that freezing hell of despair thanks to Dudley. The child's eyes was it not now? Harry thought.

"If you think so, then I shall respect it." She picked up a tagged bottle from the nearby table with her free hand, and topped up Harry's cup.

"Thank you." Harry said abit curtly, more to deflect the conversation before she could penetrate deeper into his own mask. The young woman smiled again.

"Finding a way to deflect the conversation, are we now?" She extended a hand with an exaggerated motion as if to forcibly anchor him there to continue the conversation with her; the hand was too slim and cold to the touch, and to Harry quick observation, the snow white hand was not sullied by any excessive jewelry. Harry kissed the hand formally, as etiquette demanded, and to his astonishment she giggled.

"A gentleman as well as a pervert. You are full of surprises." Then she surprised Harry by dropping an explosive statement, truth notwithstanding, with the light of mischief briefly returned to her soul-catching eyes. "Oh, I do notice your frequent gaze at me." Harry titled his head confusedly at her statement, not knowing how to deal with the girl. "I'm Sofia Athennes, by the way. I sing a bit, in case you didn't notice."

"I know," Harry said and tried to appear unfazedly. By name, he could indicate that the singer was not of the named noble blood, and thus he decided to answer to her accusation in a more brazen fashion. ", and very well, too; while we are still at it, I have to inform you that I was more into your eyes than your body." She was taken aback with his provocative compliment with an embarrassed diversion of her, now, bashfully glittering eyes. Harry took the chance to finally have a general view of the young woman. She was tall and slim, with back-length hair of a shade of black he'd never seen on anyone else before or since, hanging loose to frame a face which would have certainly made even ancient sophistry and aged poem shun from needless description, for no mere word could have rationalize such a beauty. Her dress was of an exquisite velvet blue, and seemed to orbit around her figure like a fine mist.

After registering her image, Harry bowed formally, refusing to enter into her game of words. "Harry Potter," the boy said, fully anticipated the drastic change his name would make to the conversation, "at your service." Her eyes widened a little as he introduced himself.

"I've heard of you," she said, a little breathlessly. "You are the boy survived that catastrophic car crash!" Well he evidently had, if his current presence there was not enough of an indication. It was the early incident that had laid the foundations of Harry's ironic reputation as a hapless nephew, but his adventures into the dark shade of society since had created the Masked Executioner, whose savage warpaths and infamous brutality tended to overshadow the presence of such trivial member of the family. "So I evidently did." Harry said, slipping back unconsciously into the sarcastic demeanor he often adopted around Petunia without thinking. "I'd reckon it was a stroke of luck."

"Oh, but it was. I saw it, you know." She nervously laughed at Harry astonished expression. "I was there in Godric Hollow, visiting my relatives. I saw the car came crashing over the outer walls, and came even through your doorstep."

"I see," Harry monotonously replied. "And I need not knowing the details."

"That … is so." Sofia nodded, and then Harry got the feeling that she was finally stumbling to find a topic to initiate another conversation with him.

"Appropriately," Harry initiated intently on the musician's change of music. "Right now, I think it's my duty to ask you to dance." It was a transparent attempt to mingle with the noises, away from the ever-present ears and while appearing normal to the watching eyes, so that he could ask, so that he could inquire what had happened to mental frighten such a marvel of a face. The boy, however, expected the young singer to refuse with modest embarrassment, but she smiled, discarding any traces of artist pride and her status as a background singer, and took his extended arm.

"I'd love to," she whispered passionately. "I've a few minutes before my second set."

So as they were drifted across to the dance floor, Harry pulled the taller woman closer, and breathed in her reddened ears. "So what is it that you want of me?"

And the cheerful mask of Sofia Athennes broke.

The color in her face was drained in an instant as she looked at Harry with horror, her eyes devoid of the will to live. He knew. He knew. He knew. She madly chanted in her tormented mind. But even in that state, her body still elegantly followed Harry's whimsical lead, which accompanied by occasional twist and overhead turn, until finally, when she pulled him closer by herself with a fragilely renewed confidence. "Protection." The girl murmured faintly.

"Why me, the adopted …" The damned woman knew his secret! Harry held his breath as he felt the unnerving sensation nauseously return to occupy his senses. "… nephew of the Dursley? I am practically a charity mascot for the house."

"You looked me in the eyes, Harry." Harry unconsciously flinched at the breaking voice whispering of his name. "And as you see into mine, I also placed my eyes unto you. In you I see … different experiences, Harry. Amidst them, there is a look of power in your eyes. A power untouched by ambition and desire. A protective power imbued with devotion and care…" The woman hands began to tremble in his as she met the glowing green eyes of Harry, "… no matter how…"

Sofia pulled away in the purest fear of the boy of many faces, and tried to return to the stage with her shaking legs. Harry, with what looked like the reluctance to part with the beauty to the ever vigilant eyes, caught up to escort her for a part of the way, seemingly chatting to no purpose with the intention of simply prolonging a pleasant interlude in what otherwise promised to be a dull late-morning.

"May I ask if you have been reserved for the noon?" Harry asked in a sudden smooth tone to ease her perturbed mind, with the expectation for a negative answer, as it seemed his companion was well-reversed in the intricacies of the noble circles. It came with frequent exclusive performing for the corrupted aristocracy, Harry supposed as even him did not know such a good singer existed. She shook her head, looking both surprised and afraid. Harry's rampant expression when he was unmasked seemed to have a rather undesirable effect on her as he chided himself of his immaturity.

"How about you accompany with us …" Harry gently gestured towards the still socializing Dursleys. Sofia nodded immediately without needing him to finish his sentence. "… for lunch. Oh, how fortunate." He blinked at the woman.

"I don't see any reason to decline." Meaning she could not escape from his clutch, now that she had gotten him interested. Sofia started to sniffle in quick succession with her dress silently slipping across her slim shoulders, her body trembling in the uncertainty of her fate.

"Take a slow breath. Five – four – three – two – one - zero." Harry calmly advised as he saw the woman started to hyperventilate. Harry suddenly had a hollow feeling that if she made a scene here, then they would never meet again. "Hold it in, and hear your heart beating. Two – one. Try to calm it down."

"Exhale slowly. Five – four – three – two – one – zero." he counted with experience in dealing with the aftermath of Petunia Asura mode. "Do you feel better?"

"Y-Yes, thank you." The color returned to her face as she replied without thinking. Those depthless emerald eyes naturally drifted to Harry, and he could have seen that there was at least some of the light hovering in her windows of soul. This woman could still be salvaged. He thought. At least she did not tread on his darkness while retaining as one of the "Others".

"I think you should take a rest in the stage room." Harry said, the idea of taking the singer as his possession took a firmer root in his mind. A nefarious plan began to cook itself up in his brain. The woman still knew too much for her own safety. "You still have to sing for a second set, do you?"

Sofia's eyes widened as she was reminded of her duties. "Yes, I will," she said, with a delicate shiver. "I shall return for you once the set is over."

Well, Harry was about to offer to escort her from the stage room to meet the Dursley, of course as his principles dictated, but now that he had reconsidered it seriously, it would do him no harm to accept her offer, so as to appear to the onlookers that the singer took an interest in him, rather than the opposite of it. The act of her fetching him to visit the Dursley would appear somewhat like this in the eyes of the celebrities: Under the pretense of sympathetic interest, Sofia would approach the hapless nephew, and persuade him into introducing her to the Dursleys only to have them as her sponsor so that she could have gained a massive boost to her career. To finalize the faked act, the boy put on his best love smitten expression and said: "Yes, I will be waiting for you." Well, Harry wanted to exaggerate for a dramatic effect, and it worked, pushing the attention to the young woman, but she did not notice that. Sofia nodded at Harry's smile, bashfully, and trotted on light steps back to the stage, and Harry watched her go, whispering to his combead. "Nexus, get me her detailed profile."

"Yes, sir." Sergey replied evenly through the vox channel. "May I ask if you have plans to make her into one of us, sir?"

Harry's track of thought halted still, with some he could have sworn even derailed, and came crashing through his skull, vanishing out of his mind in an instant.

Blimey, Sergey. Harry cursed. He never failed to surprise him.

Yes, why did he even take an interest in this woman?

A fundamental question was presented. Then, he would need a fundamental answer. Yes, when he thought of the woman, what would surface first and foremost?

"No, something more of a secretarial division." Harry immediately threw his "first and foremost" out of his brains in the same hole his trains of thought crash through, and voiced his rational thoughts. Dangerous, dangerous, he smirked chillingly. "Prepare her lodging at the Mount's End, Nexus."

"Copy that, sir." Sergey's voice dropped a few Celsius degree. "It would certainly be wise to employ beautiful singer ladies as your secretary, sir. We brawny guards were certainly not of use to you in brain matters. Why did it had not came to me before, alas, what a failure I am."

Harry silently chuckled at Sergey's remarks. It hit home, but he could not budge Harry with only that. In fact the boy wanted to tickle at his guard snarky side abit more. "We shall see about that."

"As indeed, we shall." Nexus voice went dead in the combead, killed the conversation so as not to be dragged into Harry's pace. The guard did know him well. Harry sighed, somewhat relieved, though another question stuck immediately up as he did not know what was he relieved of, nor why should he feel so.

…

…

….


	2. Chapter 2: A dance with the Masked: Noo

The rest of the morning felt like an anticlimactic eternity, so Harry decided to drift back to the food and strictly soft drink. His culinary skills back at the main house were decided adequate enough for three top-class gourmets, but he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to experience varied kinds of taste as the opportunity might give him a note or two from the delicacies presented for his cooking experiments later. Also it was as good a vantage point as any to enjoy Sofia's performance from. It seemed that she had regained her former composure, though now and then, when their eyes transfixed, she would began to blush and look away with haste. It was also, as he'd learned since from uncountable similar affairs, the best spot to be caught off guard, since the noises gravitated there sooner or later; the abundance of people made it hard to detect an intently approaching presence.

Thus it was that the boy made the acquaintance of Kimberlee, without the faintest presentiment of the trouble that innocent conversation would lead to. If anything was to be lacking that had lead to trouble, Harry supposed, then it was his height to blame as he came simply to fill a plate of assorted desserts, few were presented too damn high on the top columned dishes. If he was to reach up, then there would be a slime chance of knocking the base plate over, as his centre of mass could have shifted, so he was trying to work out a way of getting to them when a thick arm reached across to pick up the dish.

"Allow me." The voice was lively and slightly muted, presumably because of a restrained laughter at watching a child seriously combatting the bourgeois of desserts, and struggling with bondage of heights. Harry transferred a couple of the delicacies to his plate, and found himself addressing the "interesting man in the broader sense of the word" to quote Laggera. In a brief interval, Harry caught the sight of the man: he was in his late 30s, and his facial features were rough with a tender edge to it: a face of a man who smiled and laughed by his heart. He dressed in a simple black jacket over his white shirt. The long pure black trousers only served as the elipsis for his towering heights. "Thank you, sieur Kimberlee," Harry said. "You're most kind."

"Have we met before, child?" His eyes tuned into an inquisitive gaze, as Harry noticed the irises were almost icy blue contrasted deeply with his glossy shade of black hair; the combination of which had an unnerving piercing quality that increased his already striking resemblance to a dictator with a toothbrush mustache.

"Your reputation precedes you," Harry said blandly, letting him make of that what he would, though as common sense dictated, it would be most imbecile for a guest to not know of his host. ", though your shadow even precedes that." Harry titled his head towards the man in the black glasses overwatching both of them from the bar, sipping his mucky glass of who-know-what.

"I'm sure he does." He chuckled heartily, realizing that the child was pulling his leg. A rather experienced hand at reading people too, he surmised, "You seem to have rather sharp eyes for one of such age," Kimberlee said, and a momentary smile surfaced on Harry's face.

"I often get that compliments."

The man took one of the pastries for himself. "So, where did you learn of me, child?"

"A local priest by the name of Laggera Primapice told me of his experiences with you." Harry answered ingenuously.

"Local priest, why, of course." Kimberlee bit into the delicacy with a grin. There was something about the statement Harry made that had struck his sense of humor. "A great bridge builder, too, that man."

"It seemed that another noble is making his entrance," Harry said, noticing the flunkey was clearing his throat at the entrance, looking a little flustered. He'd called out a number of names since the Dursleys had made their entrance, but it was clear that this time he seriously expected to be listened to.

"Indeed. It seems to be so." His voice was level again. "As the host, I have my duties to pay them proper respect." His smiled then was without any of easy going attitude, but a professional business smile. "We shall meet again, Mister Potter." Harry shot a grin at the man. How scary the man was to notice such a trivial presence of Harry. "Your reputation precedes you too." Kimberlee laughed.

And then he was gone, leaving Harry pleasantly entertained. He didn't have long to enjoy the amusement of playing with an old hand in the game of words, though, because the flunkey, who'd announced his miserable status of being an attached to the Dursley, was pounding a staff on the polished wooden floor, and the mindless babble of voices gradually diminished, Sofia's soprano voice trailed away in mid-chorus, which was a real shame. The flunkey's chest inflated with self-importance.

"My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. It is my honour to present His Excellency Zhao Li Hao, Ambassador of the People's Republic of Shina."

ONE THING Harry would say for the Shinese, they certainly know how to make an impressive entrance. Zhao Li Hao, or rather, to the western standard: Hao Li Zhao, was draped in a traditional white robe inscribed with simple floral patterns, which made all the Britiss noble dignitaries look ridiculously overdressed, and was surrounded by his body guards, who in contrast attired fully in western suits. There was no mistaking who was in charge, though, as his imperial charisma immediately filled the room with silence, his entourage swiftly followed in his wake as he strode confidently across the polished wooden floor towards Kimberlee. Harry didn't realise at the time how apt the mental image was, of course. What he did notice almost at once was a familiar glint in his murky brown eyes, and the rigidness of his compatriots at the center of attention now that they had stopped in front of Kimberlee to exchange pleasantries.

"Mister Li Hao is looking very confident today." Laggera stood by Harry's left shoulder, with the words delivered through almost motionless lips as he came into brief eye contact with the Ambassador and made the holy sign in greeting. "May the Lord guide his poor soul to the righteous path."

"What do you mean, sir?" Harry inquired, more out of politeness than actually expecting an answer. The problem laid with the fact that the People's Republic of Shina was firmly establishing itself as the shadow gorvernor of the South East Asia region. But that was it. Shina was all but officially declared containment within the SEA region. To the north, there was the highly militarized Soriet Union aching for a provocation in any form to invoke total war to politically remind its people of the utter necessity of the Communist Party within the dissolving Union. To the east, Kourea and Japon were under the close over watch of the United States of Amirca, whose harrier fleets were on constant high alert patrolling the coasts of Okinawa, seeking for a daring challenger to utilize all of their experimental weapons for target practice. To the south and west, there were Oustralia and Lindia, both of whom had been under the _Dominion of the Crown_, and even after they regained independence, they still catered closely to the market of the Commonwealth. However, as the Crown's official presence in the SEA region was very distant, lingering only as a meager shadow, the Shinese took the liberty in invading the growing Indian markets with their abundant materials and human resources. Investment of Shina into Lindia rose overnight, and within a month, the capital poured into the home of Hinduism reached a tremendous amount, practically established Shina as the de facto patron of Lindia. The Prime Minister and the Parliament did not responded to this bold movement, seeing as India had initially been established as an open market, which doubled as an unruly center of trade and shipping now somewhat brought to control, and as long as the Commonwealth could secure its source of interests in India, other local political matters were not of the Crown's concern.

But ironically, they bloody were. The People's Republic of Shina ignited a political war for territorial claim by submitting a dated document inscribed with exploratory note from a historical excursion of the _Nanfang Hai_ to the Representatives of SEA regions. The response was very much predictable. Protests, claims, summits, meetings and many more meaningless events were orchestrated as a distracting show to draw attention away from the private meetings and discussions of Shinese officials and their interested partners within the government of other countries. The representatives of Shina single handedly fanned the flames of conflicts in the official conferences, and held the key members of other governments in their pockets behind the scene. All was to ensure a single mutual (constructed) decision between all parties involved. Thus There was declared a state of temporary Naval Lockdown of the South China Sea, and by an extension, the Indian Sea, under the pretense of not risking "_further escalating tensions in the region_" by any intervening naval forces from the West. The lockdown would be lifted only when all the claims were resolved within conference peacefully, completed with the handwritten letter of confirmation for the abolishment of the Naval Lockdown state from the effective Leader of every country involved. All unidentified foreign freighters, which incidentally included all frequent cargo ships carrying materials of interest from Lindia headed for the Commonwealth and its allies, would be met with lethal response from any present naval forces without needing confirmation from higher authorities. Others small class ship operating on the waters would be put on close inspection by present naval forces, and could be apprehended to the nearest port should such a need arise. The Eastern Patrolling Fleets were thus formed multinationally by all involved naval forces to independently act as the "fair" enforcers of peace in the troubled waters. Most of the funding for the EPF came from Shina, though, just for the rather _non-exist_ent record. And the initial presentator of the dated document, head representative of Shina that single handedly brew up such a complete shit storm in Aria, the head official that allergedly negotiated under the table with multiple Shinese personnels of interest? Most Certainly Not His Excellency Zhao Li Hao.

"That man has sinned greatly." Laggera watched with dull eyes as the Shinese delegation made its bow greeting to Kimberlee.

"I think that all humans have sinned, and that all sins are equal." Harry responded unenthusiastically to the priest accusation. "A sin is a _decisive_ act of violating the God's will. _All crimes_ must be regarded as sins, and no sin should be regarded as greater than others. There will be no minor errors, nor will there be deadly misdeeds. All sins result in just an accumulation, which had always been purposefully geared towards building the total corruption of mankind. The accumulation must, eventually, be purged."

"I see your view, my child." Laggera smiled at Harry, and looked at him with the gentle eyes of an experienced missionary converting a heretic. "But then, what would the common punishment for the sinned be in such a constricted world? Death? Imprisonment?"

Harry did not reply.

"It troubles me very to see one of such precocious age to have such ominous view of this world." The priest worriedly pinched his nose bridge. "Let me give you some advice, child. It may help you to make at least some sense off this twisted world of trifling wars and needless deaths. I believe that you find life infested with punishable sin because you consciously force yourself to _think_ there are only the bad people and the _worse_ people. You think you have seen bad people sinned in every way imaginable. But you are wrong, and if you continue to think so, you will be _dead_ wrong. So your parents were killed by bad people, who got away with it. However, there is no need to brood over what had happened. You have said so yourself. 'I don't need anything more.' Then stop. Stop your stubborn pursuit of the perpetrators for the sake of keeping your new family … wholesome."

With a heavy sigh, he continued his stern preaching. "You never know what you could hear in the local confessions, my child." Laggera shifted his posture lightly, and casually indicated Harry with his right hand. "Now, let us discuss this matter free of the sentimentality of your parents' death. By your original definition, the essence of the world is depthless darkness; I ask of you, what is soul-crushingly evil about a newborn child? Do children still have to unquestionably paint themselves as being "on the right side?", and to elaborate: by what _means_ and _standards_ do you judge the virtue of the other side, if there is one at all, being worse?"

"What is evil, Harry boy? I think that Evil is simply resentment, perhaps? One that the mass emotionally perceives from witnessing certain events or actions caused by an individual or a group of human beings; you cannot really say that a natural beast is evil, can you? I did say that human "_perceive_" evil, because, for all that matters, anything goes against the annex of society formed by human is evil, so logically human rejects evil, but it is not very effective. An example will suffice here, I think. Let us presume that you are being followed by a stalker, who expressed feeling of love to you. You can reject a stalker confession of love for you, but it doesn't necessarily result in immediate abolishment of the stalker distant voyeurism, if not agitating negatively him to take his action to a whole new level. In your eyes, the stalker is disgusting. In the eyes of the society, the stalker is disgusting. In the view point of the stalker? His actions are but just few of the many repressed forms of his feelings. Romantic, enthralling, captivating … _addictive_, even…

"Then, as time passed, as a lawful member of society, you will seek help from others when the pressure from the stalker started to get too overboard, which will lead to the over taxation your mental capabilities. The help will always come timely if you ask just the right place, namely the local law enforcer. After filling form, attending courtroom and such, you will be able to return to society, to the tranquil that once was the norm. However, you will gradually feel out of place, submerged in stagnate air of anxiety, because you have been changed, permanently scarred. At the point you have consciously realized that you still feel the uneasiness from the whole ordeal, you will come to experience the fear poured forth from your own unconscious suppression during the circumstances. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. You will dream of the most horrible of nightmare in the world of your mind, and you will live through restless night, entrapped in the claustrophobic fear of being captured by the hideous stalker right in the blanket where you are curling in.

"You will certainly regret not personally having taken actions against the "criminal". So what is the moral of the story, Harry boy?"

Harry pondered uncharacteristically for a second, and answered with a flicker of uncertainty. "That … you should take action preventatively before evil can manifest?"

"An incomplete anwser, as you realized it yourself. Prevention can only lead this society into a monochrome life. Grey, dead, and strangely … uncanny. The steps leading to such would be …." Laggera shifted his vision to Li Hao, and trailed away, keeping the brutal answers from a child …

"Induction of fear, gruesome display of public execution, justification of corporeal punishment, forced mass re-education, perpetual examination of privacy, and finally accumulation … accumulation through an extended period will result in a new generation …" …which was pointless, as it seemed.

"… of something that can no longer be called human. I take it that you are rather familiar with the processes, Harry boy?"

"Removing evil is not the same as creating good." Harry simply answered. "I will have the answer for the moral of the story by the next time we meet."

"Young child, just don't grow up like him. That man inspired belief that harm people."

"Are you referring to the Conflict of Pryhis?" Harry asked, poking a needle at Laggera's mentality as a little prank from a student against his lecturer. However, the priest must have detected something in his intonation because the dull eyes shadowing Li Hao were switched sharply to Harry at once, a sensation the boy found mildly amusing.

"Yes, and no, generally." he said evenly, watching Harry's face for a flicker of reaction. Well, good luck to him, the boy smiled in his head – six years of televisual meeting had left Harry's body language and facial expression virtually impossible to read in that way, if he was focused on the task, that was. Harry indicated the Dursleys with a tilt of his head, they were watching the exchange between Kimberlee and the Shinese diplomats in restrained contempt, trying not to look as though they were paying it any attention from the otherside of the dining hall.

"Uncle had quite a streak of all nighters dealing with the protests of His Excellency," Harry said. "And through the rare stern voice Uncle sounded through the living room, neither of them seem terribly happy about it."

"Good grief, a man of his caliber took a meeting of that importance in his living room, while threatening an Ambassador?" Once again, Harry found himself in the middle of an endurance contest. Emperor's bowels, the boy thought irritably, why did everyone always play right to his tune of retort? "That is surreal." The priest unconsciously made the holy sign.

"Mister Kimberlee said he was just going to exchange with them some simple pleasantries," Harry said, shrugging because he did not remember what exactly the host had said. Still the greeting farce had been on for quite a while. "Evidently getting on the robes of an Ambassador is pleasant enough." Harry looked at Laggera and saw the priest sighed heavily.

**Bang!**

**BANG! BANG! BANG!**

Four barks of a pistol going off echoed around the ballroom, and Harry immediately dived for cover behind a nearby overstuffed sofa even before the rational part of his mind had identified the source of the sounds. Harry could easily pass off as being invincible behind his executioner mask, cladded in the abundance of equipment, but when he was out of all those mechanical accessories and thick platings, the common sense to take cover for bullets might do the part of keeping him alive just fine, like then. His survival instincts still displayed excellent response time for one who often indifferently experience invulnerability within his heavily customized armor of power.

Harry quickly located Laggera, who was crouching behind a table, still gaping in disbelief, as the room chaotically erupted in panic and screams. The guests started scrambling to the particular direction of their trusted guards. Those guards were professionally standing their ground, waiting patiently for their masters to come at their side, while taking out their side arms with haste and aiming it around to identify the hostile forces; the sight was breath taking, literally, as every kind of sidearm imaginable suddenly appeared in hands on every side, aiming at each other, waiting for the shooting to start again.

"**All of you** …" Zhao Li Hao, with all his menacing empirical majesty of the east, mocking bellowed at the sight of mass confusion, on his hand a peculiar kind of Shinese handgun, which were still menacingly smoking, from the recesses of his now dashed with blood robes. Kimberlee was down, his hand clutched tightly at Li Hao's robes as if it was a last attempt to warn his guest of the murderer, his blood started to leak everywhere on the shiny wooden floor, and Harry knew from rather recent experience that he wouldn't be getting up again.

For the record, two rounds had pierced through his skulls, redecorating the puddle of flowing blood with murky brain matter. One round was, apparently, shot at his neck, as the bullet made a gaping hole through the back of his neck large enough to jack him in the Matrix. Another made a hole near left shoulder blade, presumably aimed at the heart. Harry knitted his brow at the sight the unusual throughout and decisive kill. Four bullets to four vital regions. Even the doctor with the patched face would have to reluctantly let this life go to God.

"… **shall die**." Li Hao howled from the carpeted entrance, eyed viciously at the panicked Dursleys at the opposite end of the vast hall, and his entourage started shooting with controlled bursts, taking down still astonished guards of nobles and celebrities, advancing steadily towards the where the Dursleys were standing. "For the _greater_ good."

"Nexus!" Harry shouted in combead in his ear, bullets wheezing past the sofa he was taking cover behind. Acting as the hapless nephew be damned in all this chaos. "_**Where in the bloody hell are you?**_"

"Over by the stage, sir." He lifted his head for a brief moment to scan the room filled with anguished cry of the dying, and located the stout Sergey as he was returning fire unsteadily with his right hand; his left was keeping Sofia's head down, which was turning to look at the killing fest as though mesmerized.

"Did the Ambassador shoot Kimberlee?"

"Affirmative, sir." Sergey hesitated a fraction of a second, then added. "Mister Kimberlee seems to have noticed something when Li Hao shook his hand."

"He paid the pleasantries alright," Harry said. "He had not known better than to look into Shinese hanging sleeves." Literally as that bought the rather amiable host a free ticket to the underworld.

Practically guards with a sidearm was firing for effect in a panic-stricken reflex at the Shinese delegates, except for a few, who knew when to fold and was evacuating their clients quickly.

"_Savages!_ Is this how you propose peace?" A gun-waving noble was getting hysterical, firing his weapon wildly at Li Hao, who levelled his gun at his enemy face in a fraction of a second, and calmly pulled the trigger between short intervals to re-adjust his aim after each shot. It was a bloody public execution as the noble caught the entire clip of ammunition unto his face, Harry had no intention of getting caught in the middle of it.

"Galaxy," Harry voxed. "Berry. We're leaving now. There may be heavy resistance."

"Sir." Hans "Galaxy" Rivers' voice was as phlegmatic as ever, taking Harry's demand for transport as it simply was, without needing even a tiniest grasp of context. The man climbed back inside the vehicle he had just got out to have a smoke, and started the engine methodically.

"Sir?" Barbara "BlackBerry" Lazaridis' voice was, however, inflected with her natural query, which hailed from the disposition of being too well-trained to ask. But Harry wasn't about to let the honour guards wander into a firefight without warning. He was going to need them if the Dursleys were to be expected to get out of there as fast as possible.

"Attention, all active units. The host, Mister Wolf Kimberlee, has just been assassinated by the Shinese Ambassador and his attendants," Harry said with a firm voice, which was meant to be heard in every secured listening post on his side. "Rendezvous at point Alpha. The primary objective is to secure the D-Party ASAP, and head back to the PD (Private Drive) per course Main 25 or Alternative A2. Other rescue attempts, and the elimination of the Shinese delegates are of secondary importance."

"Commander?" Lily "Valley" Riviath responded to Harry's orders immediately, her voice carried a little bitter scent. "Shouldn't we try to help?"

"Optimus, reporting in, sir. T-T-There are ….szzzszz…. unidentified armoured vehicles ….szzzzzz… Point Alpha from Caterham ….zzssszzz… Westerham. ETA: 20 minutes." Kuu "Optimus" Li-Ra voice was dashed with the wheezing of the strong wind in the background, presumably resulted from her current observation from a vertical vantage position, as she was calmly breaking the bad news to her tactical commander. "Multiple unidentified foot-mobiles are engaging ….tsszzzz…. law enforcement's headquarters ...zzzzssszzz… military barracks."

"Confirmed. All S-elements reroute to pre-determined position to cover course Alternative A2." Harry scowled at the news of the sudden appearance of an unknown military force, and Lily's natural tendency to do good deeds. Help a bunch of gold-plated nancy boys and their dwindling guards to hold a virtually indefensible fixed position against the current internal assault by a fully armed of god-knows-why-blood-maddened lunatics, and not-very-distant external seige from their armmoured division getting here in twenty minutes? Not even if Harry had anything to do with it, but if given the observer seat, he would gleefully (which would not be visibly displayed on his face, but of course) watch it unfold from beginning to end. However, as he was the effective commander, he needed to put it a little more tactfully.

"Valley, everyone has sentiment and moral, even me," Harry stated simply. "But I suspect acting it, under the circumstances, would be very unwise politically," Harry paused briefly for his subordinates to figure out what would have gone wrong if they had intervened the massacre. "Unless I'm misreading the situation, of course."

"I don't think you are," Minato "Xperia" Morita joined the channel, a little reluctant to agree with Harry. Following his mindset, Harry wouldn't be too happy to see a real fight in the vicinity slipping rapidly away, either. "At the intermediate moment this is general Britiss – Shinese matter."

"Whereas if we get involved, we run the risk of reminding the Queen of whom accord did all of this started, and now that the conflict of Pryhis has opened a path to deliver enough niche supplies for this island to last another three year or so, they will very likely tap us unsympathetically on the bollocks and leave us to death with the Shinese hyenas, somehow." Harry finished. "Which would single us out for open war against _the eastern superpower _ofShinese. A single conglomerate versus an entire country. Intervention is, thus, limited to secondary objective."

"Roger." Harry could easily imagine Lily's soft face fell to her conscience, and he suddenly realised that she'd been hoping for a chance to redeem herself and her reputation.

"Good," Harry said. "Rescue still retains as secondary objective."

"Affirmative, sir." she said cripsly, though with a fervent air of hope to save some lives.

Well, Harry would still have to get to have a chat with her latter about her guilt-driven actions. Latter, that was.

"Anyways, three chocolate cookies on them armors being Shinese forces." Fededrik "Lumia" Mekeline cheerfully chipped in in channel when Harry could finally concentrate to make some logical assumptions out of the reported information of Kuu Li-Ra. "Anyone?"

For a moment of insanity Harry seriously considered sending Fededrik to the MRI labs as live material for extreme brain experiments involving cookies and cake, which was a lie, when common sense reasserted itself, hard, back to his brain. There hadn't been time to fool around.

"Nexus, get to the D-Party through the backstage route, get the package along too" Harry said, eyeing at the regrouped guards firing off a concentrated bullet storm that had broken the unflinching walk of the stout Shinese, sending them to covers behind flipped buffet tables and lead-scarred buttresses. Harry recalled the vicious glare Li Hao directed at the Dursleys. "The assassins' primary targets were initially the D-Party, and they had confederates who were advancing toward to this position to bail them out from the hot zone."

Harry brows knitted into a scowl as the event began to shape into a cohesive figure in his mind when he was suddenly reminded of the priest.

'Yes, and no, generally._' the voice of the priest rang within his head.

"This event was aimed to eliminate the immediate figures who were directly controlling the Dursleys Industry, along with his successor, and the chooser of the secondary successor. After three main figures are unable to provide a capable successor; which was caused by indecisiveness, illness, or death, then the power to choose the next chairman will fall to the Board of Directives, whom include a Chair of quarter-Shinese descendant, if my memory is to be trusted….

"This new chairman, insulated with a falling power in the eyes of the mass, will logically "retain" from entering India's territory again to avoid escalating the fragile situation between two super powers to consolidate his position, and the Dursley Industry will withdraw from Asia, which will gradually deflect Great Britain's interest away from India. There was no peace negotiations in the first place. They are here to fulfill their quest."

"With all respect, sir. Our prime concern must remain to be the welfare of the D-Party," Minato as-a-matter-of-factly asserted the initial priority of the channel back in discussion. ", this is not the time for speculation and the likes."

"Warrior 1-1 has been dispatched," Galaxy calmly joined the vox channel. "Warrior 1-1 will be reach the Alpha Point in 5 mike, be advised."

"Say again, Warrior 1-1 … Warrior … **What Warrio**r**!?**" BlackBerry's casual birdy voice turned into a deafening shriek when she realized the absurdity of the prospect of driving the Warrior through the Alternative A2 route, for she was also in charge of generating general emergency exit and live-time mobile security of almost all operations.

**"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU PARK THAT!?"**

More importantly, Berry, how the hell did he drive it to the parking space without creating any ruckus? Harry thought.

To somewhat sympathize with Berry's train of thought, one must know that the Warrior is a tracked infantry fighting vehicle. The Warrior incorporates several design features in keeping with UK battlefield experience. In particular, there are no firing ports in the hull, in line with British thinking that the role of the armored personnel carrier/infantry fighting vehicle (APC/IFV) is to carry troops under protection to the objective and then give firepower support when they have disembarked. The absence of firing ports also allows additional applique armor to be fitted to the sides of the vehicle, which is invariably applied to Warriors involved in active operations. The cage armor used at one stage was replaced in 2007 by "Wrap Two" applique armor. The basic armor provides all-around protection against 14.5 mm armor-piercing ammunition.

The crew of a Warrior are the driver, seated in the front hull, and the gunner and commander who are seated in the turret. The embarked infantry section can number up to seven soldiers, who are seated facing each other in the rear hull compartment. Passenger access is through a single electric ram powered door at the rear of the hull, rather than a drop-down ramp as in the Amirca M113 APC and M2 Bradley IFV. Warrior Section Vehicles are able to carry and support seven fully equipped soldiers together with supplies and weapons, including a number of anti-tank weapons, for a 48-hour battlefield day in nuclear/biological/chemical conditions.

The Warrior is driven by a Perkins-Rolls-Royce V8 Condor engine through a four-speed automatic gearbox. It is capable of a road speed of 46 miles per hour (74 km/h). The Warrior has the speed and performance to keep up with a Challenger 2 main battle tank over the most difficult terrain.

The vehicle is fitted with a two-man DI Mankey turret, armed with two detachable 30 mm RAIDEN cannons capable of destroying most modern APCs at a maximum range of 1,500 metres (1,600 yd), and two additional AnA-113 EX-34 7.62 mm Fughes Helicopters coaxial chain guns. It is also fitted with two clusters of four defensive grenade launchers (usually used with Visual and Infrared Screening Smoke – VIRSS).

With all the prospects of this fighting vehicle in mind, Harry grimaced when he imagined dealing with the resulting paperwork for driving this 24 tones monster down New Cross Road in the astonishment of London coppers and the Queen's sentries; however, he did realize that having armored transport was optimal under the circumstances, for the Shinese confederates also had armored vehicles, most likely IFV.

"Keep channel discipline. Warrior 1-1, stay on course. Do not engage any armored hostiles. Get to point Alpha ASAP."

"Roger wilco." Hans River replied plainly, and his feed went silent.

"And in the meantime, I will have to do something to ensure the personal safety of the D-Party. All unassigned elements, secure the west wing exits." Not that he had the time to ease on tactical conversation, even if he still had the inclination. Radio traffic from local enforcement and defense forces leeched to his vox caster was getting more urgent: the situation surrounding London was deteriorating rapidly.


	3. Interlude 2-1: The Standard of Shina

He guess there was some part of him that contentedly let her died to what she had visioned.

The rather familiar cruiser or "that" person was reduced to a malicious prison of iron, trapping the souls of its occupants inside, and dragging them along with it to the depth of Davy Jones' dominion.

Wail of grief, cry for help, and shout of emergency filled the bleeding dusk of a distant oriental sea with a crushing air of despair, and there was still the stagnant stench of burnt flesh and spilled oil.

…It certainly felt strange to Zhao Li Hao, as he lightly clung onto a floating piece of some material that he did not bother to find out, as he was one of the witness of the first gear set in motion, so that it caused a chain of reaction to finally make the world truly "move" again. The wind of change brushed violently against his haphazard face, and the water was freezing his legs, but he paid it no heed. He needed not pay it any heed.

He was one of the "involved" yet he was still alive.

He did not know if he was really lucky, or if he mercilessly stole that luck from others.

He did not know which it was, but the point is, he was the only one of the project that managed to survive.

So he would live. Death was unimaginable.

So he started swimming aimlessly on the surface of the stirring sea. A storm was coming.

He wasn't really concerned about getting dragged down to depthless sea like the poor souls trapped inside their vessels.

… Probably because, not afraid of death and pain, he had a stronger feeling in his mind, and that feeling was brewing up strength from his dying body.

He had no hope of life.

It was already a wonder he was still alive, so he insisted.

He insisted for another miracle to save him, not selfishly for "his life" but for "his life to remember" others that had fallen.

He would not survive. He would eventually die, fulfilling his oath.

Whatever happens, he won't leave that maddening red world.

From a hell he had emerged, then living in it was his purpose.

Gradually his strength left him.

Was it because there was no air left in his lung?

Or was it because of this metal shard impaled though his, then, gaping stomach?

With the last of his consciousness, he flipped over and stared at the golden clouds.

Everything around him was either dead, or dying and he could see many floating corpse.

The wind got colder, and the dark clouds brought along a mushy smell, reminding him of a midsummer rain, of memories of the past.

The rain would wash away all the blood in this turbulent sea.

In the end, he sighed deeply and looked to the sinking vessel of his, "probably" first love.

He burned that image to his brain, and out of unknown feeling, drank a mouthful of the salty water of the sea.

Doesn't taste good. He muttered, on behalf of all those who couldn't do so.

Even if you take away everything you could have taken from man, bar his life, such as his freedom, his parents, his friends, his lover and his hope, there will always be something left inside him, and until he completely breaks, this "something" will always give him strength to change his fate.

That's why he had to survive, but not to "live".

He think that it has always been a simple principle.

In other words, in order to let his body survive…

His heart had been lit by a barest of flame.

-Between the


End file.
